


Eyes of Ruby in a Lion's Head

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Sinners and Saints (Are The Same In The End) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light BDSM, Practice in Present Tense, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Stand Alone, sex as self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 22:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13913088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: Thomas knows he is self-destructive. That doesn't stop him from ignoring it.





	Eyes of Ruby in a Lion's Head

 

Thomas knows he’s being self-destructive, knows no long-term good can come of this. But by now his mouth is numb and tingly, and he knows that the long-term doesn’t matter. He doesn’t realize how hard his teeth grip the place where neck curves into shoulder. The boy beneath Thomas hisses, not entirely sure why he agreed to this in the first place, but far too inebriated to say no now. The room is covered in the shadow, the only light source being the bedside lamp, branded with the hotel’s logo in the lampshade. The letters paste themselves on the opposite wall, grey even strokes on a soft blue background. They tremble in time with Thomas’s unbridled thrusts, and part of them comes to appreciate that the bed sheets are purple instead of white. Purple always hides the blood stains better.

Thomas knows why he picked this pretty young thing. He knows the boy is inexperienced, wide-eyed, and in search of a protector. Thomas sees himself in the boy, feels the need to punish the boy for his youth and naivety. Thomas _is_ inside the boy, feeling the writhing beneath him as the drug-induced haze washes over the room. Thomas presses down on the boy’s waist, pushes him deep into the mattress, and hopes he’ll suffocate. The boy moans into the mattress, slow and languid, and Thomas cannot tell whether it is in pain or pleasure or the inexplicable need to self-harm at another man’s hand. Thomas tastes blood, and the warm, brown body beneath ceases in its struggling for just a moment. Thomas knows the powder has kicked in. He knows the pain he inflicts is good, knows the pain is necessary.  

Thomas stares at the back of the boy’s head. Traces the path of every curl until it graces the reddened skin, swollen with the imprints of teeth. He pauses, and the letters pasted on the wall in shadow stop in their quaking.

“I love you,” Thomas whispers against the warm skin of the boy’s shoulder blades. It is a lie and they both know it. Thomas feels no love for the warm body beneath him, sees it only as a means to an end, an extension of himself on which to inflict his self-hate. Thomas feels, in this moment, only the soft, numb reprieve of the orgasm and the cocaine coursing its way through his bloodstream. He slides out of the boy, his cock raw but not aching. He doesn’t feel pain. Thomas stumbles over to the vanity; the tumbler half-full of scotch sitting next to the half-empty bottle welcomes him, another unhealthy addition to the current situation. He downs it – doesn’t savour – before pouring another glass.

The boy moans, a delayed reaction to the cold air gracing his skin. The sound reminds Thomas that there is still another person in the room. He reaches for his cane, the ornate black cherry, varnished, and topped with the silver head of a lion whose eyes were bejewelled with princess-cut rubies. There is a shuffling sound as the boy attempts to get up. Thomas quickly stymies his attempts. Thomas flicks his wrist, allowing the bejewelled lion’s head to strike the boy’s spine. He cries out in pain, his bare skin raising in the shape of rubies that cry blood.

“Stay still,” Thomas commands, finishing another glass of scotch. He bends over to fiddle with the rolled-up banknote, inhaling a long line of cocaine, pre-cut and waiting beside the other lines that Thomas will consume that night. He is still hard, and strokes lazily at his erection, thinking of how he will explain _this_ binge to Washington. He washes the future obligation down with another shot of scotch, mentally scheduling his next stint in rehab.


End file.
